


Off to the Races

by StealthKaiju



Series: Demonic Chorus [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Historical References, Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 06:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20616752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StealthKaiju/pseuds/StealthKaiju
Summary: ‘Who else is gonna put up with me this way? (…) They would rue the day, I was alone without you.’Off to the Races by Lana Del ReyPrompt: Strip Tease / Cabaret or Burlesque / Pole Dancing





	Off to the Races

_Berlin, 1926_

Crowley found the area in front of the stage shadowy and smoky enough to not need to wear his glasses – no one would be able to see his eyes in the gloom. The spectator tables were as poorly lit as possible. No one was here to make conversation with a companion, or pay attention to food; they were here to see the show.

The stage was bare except for a small table with a glass of clear liquid (unlikely to be water). The lights were a soft blue-gold, almost like a pre-dawn sky, and soft piano music was playing in the background while the audience found their seats.

Crowley’s eyes were better than a mortal’s, and he found Aziraphale in the corner, sitting primly at the table, back straight, arms crossed in front of him. He was easy to spot, all in white and pale grey in a style that was fashionable about a decade or so ago. He had sensed the angel’s presence all the way down the street, and curious he had gone to find him.

He didn’t want to make the angel aware he was being watched, so he took a seat a few tables to the left and behind. What on earth might an agent of Heaven be doing in a place as disreputable as this?

The lights on the stage went out suddenly, and the crowd began wolf-whistling and clapping. This went on for a few seconds, until an unseen orchestra began belting out some strong brassy notes and a hush fell.

The lights came on to reveal a young man – at least, he looked fairly young, all long-limbs and sharp angles – in a garnet red corset and short beaded skirt slit at the thigh to reveal pale legs, ruby heels to match. A heavily made-up face, with dark lipstick and long lashes, framed by long, thick waves. Very pretty, but then again not Crowley’s type.

The music came to a short, sharp crescendo, and then the orchestra began playing a jaunty piano tune accompanied by a few violins. The man took one cocky look at the audience, and swaggered to the centre of the stage to sing.

‘I don’t cook, I don’t sweep, I don’t sew…

…I don’t dust, I don’t bake, but you know

What I do, I do very, very well!’

Here the man shimmied and undulated across the stage, his clear and clean voice singing dirtier and dirtier verses, the crowd becoming more boisterous in their appreciation.

Crowley found himself bored. But he looked at the angel, and found him staring at the man on stage, rapt attention, not even blinking. What the hell was going on?

The song ended, and the man curtseyed to catcalls and applause. He sauntered off as the stage went dark again, and then the lights came on to reveal a line of women dressed only in beads and feathers. Crowley would have stayed a bit longer, except he saw Aziraphale stand up and quickly walk away.

He waited a few seconds, then followed, keeping to the shadows. He saw Aziraphale walk to a door that was off to the side and waited.

When he thought it was safe to open the door, it led to a dark corridor, and at the end was a room with the door closed but light showing underneath. Crowley stayed where he could make a quick exit but still hear what was happening in the room.

‘Mr Fell, I always love it when you come to see me, you’re such a flatterer!’ said a voice, which was recognisable as the young performer. It sounded genuinely fond.

‘Jonas, your voice gets lovelier every time I visit.’

There was a soft laugh, and the sound of a stool scraping across the floor. ‘My voice? I strut and contort, and all you’re focusing on is my voice?’

‘Of course not dear boy, what a ridiculous notion.’ There was a pause. ‘I think you have a natural aptitude for numbers, and could have a bright future in accountancy…’

‘Hush!’ said the voice, as both men started giggling. There was the sound of shuffling, and for a while the voices stopped.

‘Stop distracting me,’ said Aziraphale, a slight grumpy huff. ‘You know I wanted to talk to you about coming with me back to London, for a little while, just while… well, things settle.’

There was a loud scoff. ‘This isn’t about that horrible man with the funny moustache, is it? Mr Fell, he’s not important, he’s going to go away eventually.’ There was a sigh. ‘I know you’re older than me, Mr Fell-‘

‘Much older,’ Aziraphale replied wistfully.

‘-but I know how the world works.’

‘I’m not sure anyone can know that, Jonas.’

Jonas gave a dismissive hum. ‘Anyway, you’re not around enough for us to waste time talking. Now, as fancy as this coat it, how the fuck do I get it off you?’

A few seconds of silence and then moaning could be heard, probably Jonas’s, Aziraphale would never make a noise like that (would he?). Crowley couldn’t stop the image of young Jonas, still in corset and skirt, being lifted onto Aziraphale’s lap, his hands all over all over his body, pulling at his hair, licking and biting at him…

Crowley walked away, a hot stab of something dark and twisted in his gut, and he swallowed down what felt like bile in his throat. He shook his head to clear the image, and ran out of the club as if the hounds of hell were chasing him.


End file.
